Just Kids
by Alva Starr
Summary: When Mac's childhood friend returns to Caineville their past shared traumas may not be enough to hold them together. Feeling betrayed when the girl left, Mac found a deadly new way to handle the loss and memories. Now that Memphis is back will he keep his secret? Does he want to? Will family lies destroy the only good thing Mac and Memphis ever had in their lives? Mac/OC M
1. Crazy

_*After a year of hiding in his cave in the canyons, the Mac muse is calling on me once again._

_*Couple of things I want to preface this story with, although I still may get some 'Mac is OOC' comments. I will say up front that I am taking an enormous amount of creative license with characterization and the plot/circumstances may seem AUish. This is my version of Mac before he gets into drugs. He's cooking meth but not on it yet. He's in his mid-twenties. He has a bond with the OC because they grew up together. All these things may seem off for a Mac fic but as I said I'm being creative with the hope of keeping him complex and to tell a compelling story. Once again, I am dealing with damaged soul mates... very damaged._

_*This is Mac so all the usual warnings apply. Rated VERY M. This IS NOT a fluffy romance story._

_As always, I appreciate you taking the time to read my work and reviews are always welcome._

_xx_

_... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... .. ._

_Voice hoarse, eyes wide and stinging, Memphis looked at the blood on her skinned knees and the dirt on her white nightgown. Crawling, trying to escape. Her father's voice was getting closer, his footsteps reverberating in the sandy soil beneath her. Memphis knew no one would save her tonight. No, she was the one who would have to do the saving._

_She slipped into the dilapidated shed behind the house desperately trying to hide. She searched the tools of torture that hung on the walls for any weapon. The ax was the closest._

_"Such a waste," came a sing-song voice from the still open doorway. "You let her get away. Now you'll just have to take that bitch's place. It's your own fault Memphis. You are making me do this."_

_Memphis would forever remember that moment; it was when she turned to look at the Devil and saw every nightmare she'd ever had embodied in a single creäture. He strolled into his shed with ease. This place was where he did all of his work. It was where he tied her to a chair and made her watch. Even when she closed her eyes, she could hear their screams and smell them. The odor of blood and rot and fear was always strong in here, but never more pungent than tonight. Tonight it was her own blood and her own terror that her flesh would rot with the rest of the nameless women's forever. Unless she fought._

_"It wasn't supposed to happen this way. It wasn't supposed to be you yet." Her father's voice was almost melancholy. "But you couldn't leave well enough alone, could you? Look what you are making me do!" He screamed the last part._

_Squeezing her fingers tightly around the hilt, the young girl bit her lip until she tasted blood and then swung the ax down quickly. At the last minute, the Devil sensed the girl behind him and whipped his body around sharply just as the ax struck his arm. The ax stuck, lodged on the bone there. Gritting her teeth, Memphis pushed down on the ax, using all her weight to cut through the bone and sever the limb._

_Blood gushed and sprayed while the Devil looked at the place where his arm had been and laughed in a mixture of hysteria and delight. Memphis clamped her lips tight as she was showered with his blood, but she didn't stop._

_Lifting the ax again, arms shaking with the effort, she swung down with all her might, stumbling as she did so. The Devil was too disoriented to move or block her attack, so the ax lodged with deadly precision in his chest, breaking his ribs and penetrating to his lungs._

_Memphis gazed into the Devil's eyes as he went down, seeing her reflection in their murky, pain clouded depths. She saw a girl coated in blood, tears, and dirt from her hair to her naked toes. She saw the surprise on her face, fear in her eyes, and something else._

_Whatever it was, the Devil recognized it: a kinship to his soul. Falling to his knees with an ax embedded in his chest and blood dripping from his wound, he swayed but looked up at Memphis The Devil smiled widely. "You can't run from who you are. You are like me, so like me...my accomplice in all of this," he choked as fell into a pool of his own blood._

_She stared at the body for what felt like an eternity, memorizing every pore that oozed sweat and blood and death. Her eyes finally looked down and were caught by the red stain crusting on her fingers, hands, and further up her arms. Her body lurched forward of its own accord and her stomach heaved. Accomplice? No! She had been bait, she had been his audience, she had been his reason but she had not been his accomplice. Had she?_

_That's when she felt his hand on her shoulder. Mac was there. It was okay. He was steadfast and calm, unfazed by the gruesome scene before them._

_"Is he dead? I...I think he is I...Mac I..."_

_A strangled grunt came from the body at her feet and she gasped. "How?"_

_"Go, get out of here. I'll finish it." The male teenager assured her through gritted teeth. "Mem, just get out of here now, before..." The sirens sounded cutting off his words or any action he planned to take against the Devil._

Memphis jolted awake in her seat. The darkness outside the bus window enveloped the landscape as if the world were underwater. She pressed her forehead against the cool glass. She couldn't see through the murky, blackened depths. She felt like she was fifteen years old again and the night IT happened flooded her unconscious in the familiar nightmare. Ten years later and her father's voice had not faded one bit. "You can't run from who you are. You are like me, so like me...my accomplice in all of this." Memphis almost heaved, but forced the sour bile back down her throat. Can that shit really be in someone's DNA?

As the Greyhound sped along the southwestern highway, its other passengers remained oblivious to the terror the young woman had relived behind her closed eyes. The cowboy next to her continued to spit tobacco juice into the soda can on his lap, the mother across the aisle breastfed her infant and the driver was yelling at the radio because he hadn't been the right number caller to win tickets to a monster truck show.

The worst part wasn't going back to Caineville itself but knowing that she could make the nightmare a reality all over again. Still she had nowhere else to go. She burned all her bridges from LA to San Francisco; from Seattle to Portland. She had no money. She had to go home. Home. She chewed a hangnail. Did she still have a home? Did she still have Mac?

Now you see me

Now you don't

Now you say you love me

Pretty soon you won't

... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... .

2 weeks later

Memphis wished Mac would say something to her, anything, even just to yell at her. She knew he usually just tuned people out as if they weren't there, and it had always infuriated her when they were growing up. He could be almost inhuman at times. But then wasn't that why she sought him out?

Tap tap tap.

Throughout the agonizingly slow ride, her boot never stopped tapping against the floorboard of the truck, her constant motion marked a contrast to Mac's stolid exterior as he steered the pickup. Memphis' left leg, bare to the mid-thigh in her denim cut-offs, bounced up and down, catching Mac's eye as he drove.

God she's grown up...

"Stop that shit." He ordered laconically, his voice betraying only annoyance and absolutely no trace of his appreciation for his friend's feminine form.

Memphis clamped one hand down on her knee though it only served to transfer her nervous energy to her fingers which she ran through her long dark hair. She looked over at Mac, whose own hair was, as always, short-cropped, messy, dirty dark blonde.

"That, too," He added. "Fucking annoying."

Late night in the desert meant there was little traffic on the road. They sped through a series of flashing yellow traffic lights. There was something magical late at night like things were possible then that weren't in the light of day. She didn't want to interrupt this time. Mac had gone into one of his "zones." She knew he was thinking things over, turning over every possible objection, every contingency, and possibility. Sometimes, she was in awe of the way the man could think. Other times, she wished he'd get out of his own head and take notice of other people in the world.

"Are you pissed?" she asked, strangely hoping he was.

Mac waited so long to respond that Memphis almost thought he didn't hear her. Then, with the faintest of head turns, just barely enough to signal his recognition of her presence, he spoke.

"Nope."

"Don't have a lecture for me?"

"Nope."

"Did you miss me?"

"Who's to say?"

That last one pissed Memphis off. Mac could be impossibly cryptic when he didn't want to be honest with her.

"Don't care your best friend almost spent the night in jail?" she asked with growing frustration.

They reached an actually functioning red light and stopped. Mac turned slightly more towards her. "I came, didn't I?" he said, his voice no warmer.

Memphis felt a little bad. She wanted Mac to care about her, even though he wasn't showing it. She had to admit, though, that picking her up at 2 AM from the police station in the next town after she was in a brawl at a bar was a pretty decent thing for friend to do. He had even paid her bail.

"Yeah, you did. Thanks," she said sheepishly. "Tonight sucked. I had to get out of that house. My mom's fucking pissing me off. I don't how much longer I can stay there. I'm an adult you know, but she still acts like I'm...she wants me to pay rent, but I have no money and I.."

Mac didn't say anything sympathetic. In fact, he seemed bored, so she felt stupid for complaining. " I'm not drunk. I know that's what the cop said."

"Lucky he thought so. Why did you do it Mem?"

"He…this guy…touched me. Wouldn't leave me alone." She zipped her hoodie and pulled the garment tightly around her middle self-protectively.

Mac lit a cigarette.

His silence and her admission about the man made her uneasy so she changed the subject. "So, not to be an asshole or anything, but I'm starving. Any chance we could get something to eat?"

Memphis was hungry, but most of all, she didn't want to go back to her house. Anywhere but there.

"It's late. Sure there's food back home," he said, seemingly oblivious to her ulterior motives.

Memphis' voice took on a hopeful lilt. "You mean your house?"

"Very funny," Mac replied. "You're going home.

"Please, Mac. Just one night."

"No," he said, with the finality of a judge pronouncing a sentence. "You belong there."

"Then let me out." she said defiantly.

"So what? You can get killed on the side of the road?" he asked incredulously. "Not happening."

"Who are you to tell me what to do?"

"The guy you called to get you out of jail." he said.

Memphis' anger flared. Why couldn't he talk to her like he used to? "I called my friend. I don't know who the fuck you are," she said with wounded outrage.

"Friend huh?" He snorted. "You ever call me? Write me? The fucking post office lost all them letters you sent in the last three years?"

She looked away. She pulled her hood on and tried to hide behind her hair.

"You been back two weeks and this is the first you let me know of it. You called cause you were up shit creek. That's all this is."

"You knew I was back?" She asked, ignoring the accusation.

"Shit yeah, what don't I know about this place? Your memory that bad? Been watching you. I know you're back at your mom's place."

"Why didn't you come by then?"

"Same reason you went two towns over to get wasted and in a bar fight I guess."

"Mac I…"

"Save it. Why did you really call me tonight?" he asked.

She was genuinely surprised at his demeanor.

"I told you because you're my friend, and we used to be close. Shit, we ought to be closer now. You're right. I fucked up by staying away from you. Not this place, but you. I get it if you hate me now. If you don't want to have anything to do with me its..."

"Stop. Don't hate you," he said. "I, look...there's just shit you don't know about me. It's not you. It's me."

"That's just it," she said as if excited to get a chance to prove her point. "I don't know about you because you won't tell me. We used to tell each other everything."

"We were just kids then."

"So? Why does it have to change?'

"It does, that's all."

"Mac, you can tell me anything. I want to be a part of your life."

"Stop fucking pushing me Memphis! Goddamn you fucking bitch, don't be like the rest of them!"

"The what? The rest of who?"

He didn't answer but looked straight ahead clenching his jaw. He hadn't changed all that much, she realized. He still switched moods on the drop of a dime. She hadn't changed either. Her emotions continued to get the better of her despite years of head shrinking. Still being impulsive and careless with her safety, she reacted to his silent treatment accordingly. With the truck moving as slowly as it was, Memphis figured she could get out easily enough. She opened the door, only to realize that the road can be deceptive. They were moving faster than she had reckoned. The force of opening the door almost knocked her out of the cab, and Mac slammed on the brakes, grabbing her across the chest to hold her back in. His mask of indifference had shattered, though she couldn't tell if he was pissed at her for opening the door or embarrassed for inadvertently feeling up her tits.

"Are you fucking crazy?" he shouted at the top of his lungs.

His words hit Memphis like a hammer blow. Mac, the person she cared about more than anyone in the whole world, was using the "c" word. She started to cry, tears of sadness and anger.

"Fuck. You." She said, punctuating each word with a middle finger. "You're just like them."

With the pick up now stopped, she jumped out and made a run for it, heading towards a cluster of rocks. Mac followed her, heedless of his truck now parked in the middle of the road. Though he had every reason to be angry, after giving chase for a minute he found himself in awe of her graceful, muscular body as she ran from him. The way so many others did, only in terror, soon to be caught. Memphis wasn't afraid of him she was running cause she was pissed off and hurt.

He stopped to admire her, letting her run herself to exhaustion while he broke into a slower jog. He didn't want to catch her like he did the others. He might as well just wait for her to come back to him, assuming she would. After Mac had given chase for as long as he could, he collapsed in a heap in front of a large boulder.

Sitting on the cold sandy earth, Mac felt a strange feeling, one he hadn't known in a while. Despite his better than average vocabulary, he couldn't put a finger on exactly what the right word for it was. It wasn't fear, or concern, or anger, or anything like what he assumed he should be feeling. He remembered feeling it when they took her away after what happened with her dad. Regret? He felt like he'd let her down that night. He hadn't finished the job and he'd let them drag her off to that place, that hospital in Salt Lake City.

He was exhausted enough to easily slip into one of his zones again. He was thinking without thinking; Memphis knew that state better than probably anyone else in the world. After about ten minutes, she returned and wasn't surprised to see him sitting there, patiently waiting for her.

"I didn't think you'd chase after me," Memphis said from behind him.

Mac grunted at her. "Fuck that." A strange smile broke across his face, and he shook his head just a little. He wondered what she'd think if she knew what he did to other women. If she knew, it was her fault.

She looked at him more closely. "Are you smiling, weirdo?" She asked, her voice less harsh than before.

Mac stroked his chin a little, laughing inside that her breath was still heaving while his had long since calmed. "Christ, you're in good shape," he said. "I feel like I'm a hundred years old now."

"Mac, I'm not okay." She sat heavily beside him, her voice serious.

"I know."

As they walked back to the road, he let her desperate hand grasp his unlovable one. They climbed silently into the truck, and he started off. He kept watching her out of the corner of his eye, hoping to see some sign she was relaxing and letting go of her nerves and anger. He was disappointed, but there was something else; she was...different. She had really grown up while she was gone. He'd missed how she'd flowered into a beautiful if a little wild, woman.

"I'm sorry about the truck thing, taking off. " She said sincerely. "Pushing you to talk. I won't do that again. Just, please don't call me 'crazy.' I don't want to explain it, but I hate that more than anything in the world."

"I don't think you're crazy," he said quietly.

"Don't lie to me," Memphis said. "I mean, everybody else does. Mac you should see the books my mom still reads: 'Coping with Problem Children,' 'Parenting a Borderline Child,' 'The Tough Love Approach to Juvenile Rebellion.' She thinks I'm crazy. Everybody does. Because of what I did, because of the hospital. Because my father was a fucking serial killer."

Memphis hadn't meant to let that last part slip out. She and Mac had of course never talked over his feelings about what happened that night when she'd tried to kill her father and they'd committed her. She looked at the unusually concerned expression in his eyes.

"Mem, you're not stupid. You're not crazy. You just shouldn't have left."

"I had no choice, they took me away."

"No, I mean the second time after you...got out. You came back, but you ran. That's on you. We were supposed to stick together remember?" He began to sound angry again.

"I'm sorry you're pissed. I'm sorry I left and was a shitty friend. But...When I'm with you, I don't have to feel like I'm the worst person in the world."

Almost without thinking, he turned left when he should have turned right.

"Where are you going?" Memphis asked, with equal parts anticipation and curiosity.

Mac was silent for a moment. He felt out of his element and more than a little uneasy now. Yet it wasn't all bad; it was strangely exhilarating to throw caution to the wind, to move without thinking, not to plan what he was going to say. She did that to him. He looked into her eyes, twin volcanoes full of bad ideas. Just like when they were kids.

"We're going to my place."


	2. The Same Disorder

_The difference between_

_promises and memory_

_is that we break promises_

_and memory breaks us._

_... .. ... . .. .. .. .. ._

_Earlier that night_

It twisted in his gut, the memory of every no, every dismissive glance, each turned ankle, each beat of a high-heeled retreat. Mac had grown to accept the odds, the disadvantages of himself. He was not outgoing; he was far from at ease socially. Even lucky nights were rarely truly lucky. But he persisted, like a good soldier, like his father had told him to do with all things, and in that persistence he had grown meaner. He heard the casual disdain in his voice when he complimented women on their bodies, their clothes; didn't care that he sounded rude, even dangerous, when he invited them home for drinks, and more recently, blatantly, sex. He was aware that his intimidating attitude caused a fair number to say no. But enough said yes. Enough were stupid, drunk or desperate enough to go with him. Fuck sweet talk. He had never gotten the hang of it. He didn't need it. As time went on his disdain had increased. He was very aware that he had, more and more often, begun to refer to women as cunts in his internal monologs. The last words these women would ever hear in their lives were from him and they were not sweet nothing's.

That night, he sat in the bar and watched the crowd and scanned his flock for targets. He felt the twisting of gut and heart, the twitching of his dick and accepted his lot in his life.

That blonde in the corner is trashed... Three of em. What, are they dykes? Too risky. Cunts in packs…fuckin' wolves.

Then the dark haired girl pushed through the heavy door into the smoke filled room. He had, of course, picked the table which allowed him to observe the door. He watched her walk in and his radar went haywire.

She must be loaded, bitch is loaded...look how dirty she is, she can barely walk...she looks terrified….and the dark hair, the similar build, the heart shaped face…

The compulsive, but scarily inviting thought surfaces in his mind.

She looks like Memphis.

He had something to do tonight after all. He slipped a cigarette out of the pack in his breast pocket and stroked it thoughtfully under the table as he watched her, the pad of his calloused thumb rasped over the paper seam between the filter and the tube, the tip of his deeply ridged nail dug slightly into the seam of the tube. A strange choreography overtakes the movement, as it always did when he concentrated: over the seam, into the seam and back; over the seam, into the seam and back. Sensation begot sensation and numbed his body, focusing him inwards, a single eye looking out upon the world.

The girl flicked a lank strand of hair away from her face as bartender spoke to her. Mac couldn't hear what they were saying, but their bodies sounded like disdain and fear, condescension and shame. He smelled it. Over the seam, into the seam and back.

His breathing grew rapider, his heart pounded at her shame. Dirty girl, dirty girl, hello little dirty girl, he breathed softly to himself, imagining what it would be like fucking her from behind up against an alley wall, slick with grime and graffiti, breathing on her thin, pale neck, his hand in her hair, holding her head firmly against the bricks, the sheen of horrified saliva glinting on her teeth under the streetlights. Oh yes, little dirty girl.

Over the seam, into the seam and back. The moment stretched out as he pictured the rictus of her face as he ejaculated in her ass, feeling her heartbeat flutter through her body, an undulation of a pulse, one after the other, rising and falling rapidly, her torn flesh like clutching fingers that have forgotten how to let go. She releases when the blood cascades from her jugular.

Without any conscious effort on his part, his dick started to get hard. Two years ago, this thought would probably have caused him to look hastily away, remonstrating himself for ruminating on Memphis and how she'd left. He'd chastise himself for wasting time thinking about the cold, disloyal bitch. But since the first time he killed her, he had learned how to handle the memories. Now, it's as if by knowing how to destroy her recollection every time it tried to invade his head, he had found his first nature. He could destroy her again and again while still keeping her safe like her father Mitchum Colter had asked him to. Like Mitchum did, himself, for all of those years. "She's yours now, boy." Mac heard the man's voice as clearly today as he did that night when it all fell apart. "I'm giving her to you. So keep your promise."

The girl, only half-paying attention, seemed to feel someone watching her, and slowly glanced around the room, meeting his eyes. Electricity travels rapid fire through him. She was aware of him. Then his phone rang. He broke eye contact. Shit. The cigarette under the table snapped at the filter under the sudden pressure of his thumb, and he cursed Walter for being such a demanding prick with orders. He considered not answering, but the mood was ruined so he did without looking at the number. "Yeah?" He practically growled.

The voice on the other end stopped his erection from wilting.

"Mac? It's me."

Even though he recognized the shaky voice, he had to be an asshole. 'Who's me?"

There was a pause, "Me, Memphis. I need a favor. I'm at the Hanksville police station. Can you pick me up?"

Of course, he knew she was back. He'd been watching her but keeping his distance. The fact that she was home wasn't quelling Mac's urges, in fact, it was increasing them. He spotted her leaving the convenience store just that morning, and now here he was hunting at this pick-up spot. Cause and effect. He wasn't sure how he'd handle being around her. Mac believed he'd hold that abandonment against Memphis forever. It seemed like another lifetime when he had someone to share his secrets, take his side. She had called him her co-conspirator, her partner in crime. Mac had tried to hold on to those childhood years, but the second time she left, of her own free will, he didn't want to remember. He wanted to obliterate their past.

Spending time with her would either lead to something very wrong between them or simply cause him unremitting daily torture to watch her without being able to touch her. He'd promised her father after all.

... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... .. .. .. .. .

"Who are you here for?" The bored deputy asked.

"Memphis Colter.'

The officer pulled up her report. "Eighty dollars. Cash." He announced, without looking up.

Mac fished the bills from his pocket and threw her bail. He paced the lobby and was about to sit when a cop led her through the door to the front of the station. Mac swallowed hard taking in her appearance up close for the first time in three years and realized his substitutes had not been doing her justice. Her eyes, wide and searching fell on his face. She closed the space between them rapidly and threw her arms around his neck. He stiffened, which didn't surprise her, but he let her hang on him for a full thirty seconds before pulling her arms off of his shoulders and pushing her outside, which did.

Tap tap tap. Immediately after pulling out of the parking lot she began tapping her boot on the floorboard of the truck nervously.

... ... ... ... ... .. .. .. . .. .. .. .

Mac parked next to the small run-down house he had moved into after high school. Mac's father Walter owned not only Caineville's bar the Luna Mesa and the motel beside it, but also all the rental properties in town. This particular abode hadn't had a tenant in years so he allowed Mac to take it over. The inside was a bit messier than Memphis last remembered. More clutter decorated the worn furniture. The place was still sparsely furnished and had a utilitarian feel. She had pushed a pair of his oil stained coveralls aside on the couch before she sat. Mac absent-mindedly grabbed a bottle of whiskey and two glasses. When he filled hers and handed it to her, she hesitated. Drinking got her in trouble; she lost her boundaries. "Getting me drunk, huh?" she asked. "This must be bad."

Mac shook his head as if he was waking from a dream. "You don't want it?"

"No, I do." Tonight she didn't care. She didn't need to worry about boundaries; she was safe, she was with Mac. He sat across from her in an armchair. She watched his throat stretch taut as he threw his head back and downed a shot. His Adam's apple moved as he swallowed.

"Hope I didn't interrupt anything important tonight when I called, I mean." She tried to start a conversation.

"You did."

"Sorry. Like a date or something?" Memphis smirked and let out a small giggle.

"Yeah, actually. " He said thickly.

"Oh. God...I really am sorry." Her face fell. She fully expected Mac to say no to the date thing. She wasn't sure why, it would certainly be normal, well, expected, that he'd be seeing women, having sex. He was like any man with needs. Memphis had a strange thought: she really hated those women. Those hypothetical, possibly non-existent, but probably in fact existent because, I mean, come on Mac is a good-looking guy with a job so he's probably had plenty of women. Memphis felt strange for that thought too.

"Wasn't that what you were doing tonight Mem? Out at the bar. Trying to get laid? " Mac leaned back, the distance between them now chilly. His voice was confrontational. If anything, it made Memphis realize how close he had just gotten to her, physically as much as emotionally. When she looked up at Mac again, she felt a little unsure of herself. There they were, both drinking, talking about sex, and suddenly he'd gotten this weird upper-hand. Was she actually jealous of his hook-ups? Was he jealous of hers?

"To be honest, no. I hate it. I mean, you know, sex. It sucks. At least, it does for me. Maybe there's something wrong with me, but it always...hey, this isn't too weird, is it?"

It was like all the air was sucked out of the room. Memphis was afraid she'd crossed some invisible line and ruined the night. Time seemed to slow. She saw how Mac's expression transformed, from focused and engaged, to vacant and taciturn. She wanted to ask him what was wrong, but some unknown force within held her tongue. Her mouth was suddenly dry, and she felt uncomfortably warm.

Mac downed what remained of his drink but made no effort to refill his glass.

"Yeah, it is weird. Let's change the subject." She concluded.

He shrugged and lit a cigarette which relaxed him and he felt strangely elated that she said she hated sex. He felt almost aroused by the thought.

"I need a job." Memphis sighed. "What are you doing now? Still at the garage?"

"Some."

"Still cooking shit for Walter?"

"Yup."

"Lane says she can get me a job where she works."

He snorted. "You? At the Sierra?"

"Just bartending or a cocktail waitress."

"Fuck that. Manny will have you onstage and naked before you finish the first hour of your," he paused and spit, before saying "cocktail waitress shift," with a sneer.

"No, I'd never dance. You know that. I… wouldn't."

"Not about what you want, it's about money for that douchebag and he'd put you where he'd get the most money out of you. I mean Christ look at you. He'd never waste that behind the bar."

Mac hadn't meant to say the last part with such strength. Memphis tilted her head and narrowed her eyes. He'd never made remarks about her physical appearance.

"Well then maybe I will. I mean hey, I'd make more money."

"You wanna be a whore? A goddamn slut no better than any the rest of them!" Mac surprised her by slamming a shot back and throwing the bottle past her head sending it shattering against the wall next to the small television set.

"Fuck, I was kidding." She blushed, pulled her knees up and hugged them to her chest.

A flash of pain then anger took over his features. "Do what you want. What's it to me anyway?"

"Don't say shit like that. Not you."

"Its different now don't you fucking get it?"

"You keep saying that. What do you mean? Why does it have to be?"

"We are not kids anymore. I saved your ass tonight, did you favor. You can crash on the couch but in the morning you go." He stood. "I need a goddamned shower." He muttered and stomped heavily out of the room.

She shouted after him. "What the fuck Mac? Don't just walk away!"

The people who know you best throw the sharpest daggers. The small bit of comfort and hope she had started to experience with him tonight slipped away and she found herself alone with that familiar dread weight pressing heavily on her chest. Still she knew you don't need someone you can live with, you need the person who you can't live without.

She pulled her spiral notebook from her purse and began writing.

_Sometimes I wonder if I did the right thing. I feel surrounded by so much nothing. All that empty space. All I can think about is the times when it was okay. When it was even kind of good. How happy I was sometimes. Mostly in the beginning._

_What if I was wrong? I have to play back all those old scenes to remind myself of why I left. I hate that I need that. It makes me feel weak that I can't trust myself, that I almost need to let my father hurt me again if only through memory, so I can believe in myself and my decisions._

_I hate my father. Hate him. Well, I want to. I think. I don't know. Hating takes so much energy, and all I really want is to forget. To become someone else. And it isn't enough for everyone else to see me as someone else. I need to be someone else to me. I want to undo myself and start again, really forget everything._

_But mostly I want to forget the sadness, the hurt of being let down so bad. And letting everyone else down. Him down. I never want to feel that again. I want to be able to wake up in the morning and not hate the beginning of another day in my own skin._

… …. … .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .

Mac shut the bathroom door behind him. He turned on the water and glanced at the mirror while he waited for it to heat up. He looked disheveled, his hair sticking up crazy in places and he was in need of a shave. Jesus Christ, why the hell does she want to stay here. I look like a fucking serial killer. I am a fucking serial killer.

Mac felt his face flush with warmth. His chest got tight and his stomach felt sick. He hadn't seen her as a woman in a while. And she was beautiful. Beautiful was not a word Mac often used, if ever. She was...perfect. Mac felt the front of his pants tightening and arousal overtook him.

He stripped down. He wasn't supposed to feel these things about her. She was his friend. But she was his. She didn't know that. Why did she have to look so fucking good? She betrayed you. She has no loyalty. She left you like she was scraping dog shit off her boot heel. He sighed and stepped into the shower. The scalding water burned his skin, but he didn't adjust the temperature. He bent his head under it and let the spray consume him for a while willing it to burn the frustration out of him. Eventually, the water cooled on its own.

Mac couldn't get Memphis off his mind. He grabbed his cock and realized was already stiff. It had been hard since he heard her say she hated sex. He wrapped his hand around its thickness and stroked the full length of it.

He closed his eyes and then imagined it was her small hand. She traces her finger down his cheek to his chest, her nail tickling him. She plays with his sparse chest hair. She's looking into his eyes, her big green piercing daggers. She licks her lips as she trails down and grabs him. He feels her warm fingers wrap around him, he barely fits her delicate hand.

"You're so big," she whispers in his ear, her voice full of raw heat. Mac is breathing heavily. She massages his cock carefully, slowly, moaning softly. She starts at the base and pulls all the way to the tip, perfect pressure, perfect timing. She picks up speed and squeezes hard, his member throbbing against her. "Mmmmm, you want me don't you?" She looks up at him, pleading with her eyes. "'Cause I want you. I always wanted you. It would be good with you. You're a real man...Mac...I need you...need you to show me how a real man does it."

He groaned at her words and felt the pressure building inside, but not enough to finish. He yanks her head back with a fistful of her hair and slides the knife smoothly across her breast flaying the tender flesh. The crimson drips then streams down her torso mingling with the water. He braces one hand against the shower wall and as she gave his cock one more good jerk he raised the knife to her throat. He slices through her jugular and comes and it's the best fucking orgasm he'd had in years.

He opened his eyes and realized he was alone. He needed to get the fuck out of there. He dressed carelessly and headed back to the living room. Memphis was asleep on the couch. He snatched his keys off of the scuffed coffee table but hesitated. Seeing her sleep, peaceful and trusting, she looked like a kid again.

"Fuck. I do care about you." He rasped. With awkward tenderness, he moved her hair away from her face. His thoughts of destroying her for his desires faded. He dropped heavily to the floor in front of the couch. He lay back and gazed up at her above him, then stared at the cracked ceiling and zoned out again.

_It was pitch black outside, twelve-year-old Mac awoke to multiple taps on his bedroom window. He stumbled over to the glass and pushed it open. He looked down at Memphis, eyes red and puffy as if she had been crying which she tried to hide._

_"He did another one." She explained bluntly dropping the rest of the stones she had planned to toss at the window. Mac extended a hand and pulled her up through the window and into his room._

_"Must have been bad." Mac lit a cigarette. "You're here."_

_"Whatever." She reached for the cigarette, took a drag then handed it back to him. He saw how badly her hand was shaking._

_He pulled a pillow and blanket off his mattress and tossed them to the floor. "Bed's yours."_

_"Aren't you a gentleman."_

_"Shut up." Mac flopped down on the floor, feeling the wood pressing into his back._

_Mac and Memphis lay next to one another looking at the ceiling. She flipped on her side and gazed at the boy beside the bed puffing on his cigarette._

_"Why are you so good to me Mac?"_

_"Why do ask stupid questions all the time?"_

_"We should run away from this hell hole. Just you and me."_

_"Why you wanna run away with me?"_

_"Why not? "She asked._

_She waited for a response, but Mac snuffed his cigarette and rolled over on his side. She saw fresh bruises on his back and shoulders. She slid down to the floor next to him and hugged him from behind. "We'll get out of here together. You and me I promise."_

Promised. A Promise is only as strong as the person who makes it.

"Mac?" Memphis whispered, bringing him back from his memory.

"Mmm."

"Why are you so good to me?" She spoke as if she had never shattered her promise and taken away the little bit of security he had known in his life. His house of glass had laid in a pile of shards for years now.

"Why do you still ask stupid questions?"

She reached down and stroked his arm. "Sorry, I pissed you off. I...missed you so much."

He jerked his arm away and rolled to face away from her. "You need a job, you can work at the Luna. I'll talk to Walter."

Broken promises were like broken mirrors. They left those stupid enough to believe them deformed, bleeding and staring at fractured images of themselves.


	3. Blood Waits

_*Thanks to all you guys who are following and faving. I appreciate you for taking the time to read my work._

_*Also thanks to OnTheWildside and Halohunter89 for tossing ideas around with me. You two help me navigate Mac's mind better than anyone._

_... ... .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. ... ._

_"Every man I meet wants to protect me. I can't figure out what from."_

_-Mae West_

The misty half-light of a new day filtered through the windows of Mac's living room and played with Memphis' mind. It whispered things that made her hopeful and almost forget that everything was so fucked up. Almost. Memphis squinted and rubbed the yellowish bruise over her wrist bone where the handcuffs had cinched last night. She just wanted to forget the whole thing. She added it her list of things she wanted to forget. The list never stopped growing. She made her way to the bathroom to pee. The bathroom mirror hung at a haphazard angle over the sink. Her makeup was smeared into perfect raccoon eyes and her hair was wild and knotted with bedhead. "I'm a fucking mess inside and out," she muttered.

She followed the smell of coffee brewing in the kitchen. Mac was there, dressed in his work coveralls, staring out the window to the desert behind his house.

"Hey?"

When he turned and saw Memphis standing in the doorway, his heart rate picked up for a few moments. Her dark hair was mussed around her face, her low-collared t-shirt revealed quite a bit of cleavage and clung to her curves. With her little smirk, he thought she looked tired but sexy without even really trying. He watched her search for clean mugs and pour them both some coffee. He remembered his thoughts in the shower from the night before and averted his eyes.

Her tentative "Good morning," as she handed him the steaming mug was met with his silence. She sat at the table and tried again to engage him in conversation. "Thanks again for last night."

He took a deep breath to calm down, but he kept tensing up every time he looked her way.

Memphis sat in silence and watched him drink his coffee. She kept trying to pinpoint what felt different about him. Something was off. He definitely looked older, his face was scruffy as if he was trying to grow a beard. He looked tireder, but she could imagine that working for his father was wearing him out. It must have brought him down some. But it wasn't any of that, exactly. Maybe he seemed more volatile. She didn't know at this point.

He didn't notice her staring at him, trying to see inside as he was deep in thought, but when he did come to, he noticed her fidgeting with her hands and cleared his throat. "So you wanna talk?"

She shrugged.

"You always wanna talk."

"I don't know what to talk about." She admitted.

"Don't believe that." He fished in his pocket for his cigarettes.

"How are you, I guess? As a person?" Memphis tapped her fingers on the table.

Mac didn't answer. To be honest, he didn't really know how. He didn't know what to tell her. The question was vague and stupid.

Memphis felt her gut twist. Maybe he was right. Maybe things were different now. His coldness froze her inside and she feared it was too late. Maybe she shouldn't have come back here. Before she could stop herself, she jumped right to the point. "I...I let things get out of hand three years ago. I fucked up bad, and I get why you're upset that I ran away. But, when I came back after the hospital I was…so messed up. All those drugs they had me on. Everywhere I looked I saw …him, them. This town, they looked back at me too. I know what people thought...think-" She stopped herself, in case he wanted to say something. He didn't, so she went on, "I know I hurt you but I won't do anything like that again. I didn't know it was so hard for you," she told him hoping he'd understand her absence was never about him.

He took a drag on his cigarette. "You left, Memphis. I'm a big boy I handled it. Life went on. Not everything revolves around you."

"I know that." Her voice became defensive. "Maybe you're right. Maybe things are different now, but I just don't want you to feel weird around me and stay away." She sipped her coffee. "Mac whats going on?"

He stretched and rolled his shoulders. "Nothing." Suddenly he wanted to hit her and he didn't know why.

"You are so quiet."

"Not a morning person. You must remember that."

"It's not just that, you-"

"Memphis stop. Stop pushing. You always ask too many damn questions."

"I know," she sighed. "Curiosity killed the cat."

"But satisfaction brought her back."

"What did you say?"

"It's the next part of that old saying." He explained. "Why?"

The color drained from her face. 'My..dad he used to say that."

"So?'

"I never heard anyone else say that second part before, that's all."

Mac noticed a glazed look take over her eyes.

An old cloth mattress filled with cotton batting makes a perfect sponge and you can always burn it later.

Once more she tried to command herself to move, to shrink to flee. And still nothing obeyed. What was going on? Her wrists were strapped to the arms of the chair with abrasive rope.

Her father stepped into the room, his distinctive silhouette filled her view. Memphis' mind worked on overload, trying to figure out what was wrong, trying to end the dream. He was in a wife beater tank top and faded blue Dickies work pants, a bottle of beer lazily couched in his palm. Memphis' eyes were forced down by the unseen controller of this nightmare. They focused on the cylindrical outline in his pants. He was hard.

She heard whimpers coming from the shadowed corner of the detached garage. The shed. Muffled, distinctly feminine sounds escaped from behind a gag. It wasn't a dream. She was here again, witness to her father's "work" again. As usual, the sole member of his audience. She wanted to vomit, to decry this debauchery. Memphis' nightmare only worsened. Her father pulled the chain that dangled from the ceiling and the naked bulb lit up with a buzz and a hum. Memphis winced at the sudden light that flooded the room and chased the shadows out to reveal the scene before her. The woman's wrists and ankles were tethered to the rusted iron bed frame with the same scratchy rope Memphis, herself, struggled against. The woman in bra and panties was pale and terrified, panic in her eyes dark hair covering half her face. She was young probably not more than twenty years old.

Mitchum leaned over his victim and drew his hunting knife. The frantic woman recoiled from the blade, an insult to his generosity, as he sliced the cloth gag from her face. "Don't scream, hear me. You'll scare my little girl." He gestured behind him to Memphis. The young girl's eyes locked with the terrified victim's across the room. It was the girl from the bus station. Memphis felt sick. "You don't want that? To scare my little girl? She was so nice to you today, sharing her lunch."

"Please. just let me go, I won't…"

"Tell anyone?" Mitchum finished her plea with a sneer. "Do you know how many goddamn times I've heard that? Do you think it makes a difference?"

Memphis 'goes away'. It's too much for her terrorized psyche. She was no longer sitting across from her father but looking down on the scene below her. Mitchum whispered furiously at his victim. "Say it. Say it or you'll never say another word again." He pressed the blade against her throat.

"Daddy…do you like my pussy, daddy," Memphis heard the woman choke out. There was a devastating defeated huskiness to it, a forced sound.

"I love your pussy Memphis," came his growled reply as he moved closer to the woman on the bed. The horrifying realization that this woman resembled Memphis herself as she might look at eighteen or twenty brought her back to herself. She heaved on her empty stomach, then was screaming with all her might and trembling and shuddering and trying to break free from her bindings. But to no avail.

"Shut up!" Her father's command roared through her terrorized psyche.

Then she heard the woman's voice gently panting encouragement to her father desperately trying to save her life.

"Touch me, Daddy."

"I always loved you the most, Memphis," he muttered as he towered over the suffering woman's prone form. His free hand reached forward and brushed a stray hair from her face, as she continued her desperate display.

A clank notified Memphis that the beer had been discarded.

"Please no," Memphis whispered to no one in particular. Someplace outside of her, she heard her father repeat over and over again.

"Beautiful Memphis, sweet, beautiful Memphis, I've loved you the most."

She tried to ignore the chant. Memphis watched in corrupt fascination as his hands pulled back the woman's long slender thighs and made available maximum penetration. A wild look in her father's eye marked the beginning of his onslaught. He rose quickly and disrobed, tossing his clothing away from him. "Say it!" He ordered. The woman cried and shook her head. He brandished his knife once again. "You will say it."

"Fuck me, please daddy," she begged between choking sobs.

"Yes, baby, I will. You will be mine forever."

Her naked father's backside was turned towards her, his shoulders tense and body braced. The victim's eyes bulged with terror as her face slowly turned purple while her father's hands crushed the throat as he thrust into her.

Memphis squeezed her eyes shut. When she opened them again, her father was dressed and stood above the prostrate body chewing on a toothpick. His rage was gone and a calm took over his face and body. He turned to Memphis. "Don't worry, everything is gonna be all right."

He moved toward his daughter and embraced her. Memphis stiffened and his smile turned into a growl. "Curiosity killed the cat." He grabbed her chin forcing her gaze upward. "But satisfaction keeps her coming back."

He took his Skil saw down from its wall mount. He turned back to the silent victim on the bed. He pinned the lower portion of the corpse with is knee and guided the saw blade along the spine, probing the vertebrae with his fingers.

Memphis didn't know how much time passed before the screeching saw stopped and her father looked down at his fallen trophy in pieces on the bed. He tossed a blanket over the severed remains and was more concerned with the Skil saw. He inspected the blade lovingly then returned to his workbench, wiped the saw with a rag, and hung it back on the wall. Another job well done.

Finally, distracted, he begins to untie Memphis, taking his time. Survivors have all the time in the world.

"Hey!" Mac was snapping his fingers in front of her face. "Thought you wanted to talk. "

"I need to go." She said standing up, startled. The chair fell backward and hit the floor. "Take me…take me home."

She fished in her purse for the orange vial. She downed the valium and the memory.

Mac stood back chewing on a toothpick and watched the trembling, shrinking girl with narrowed eyes. Something about the fear and desperation on her face made him forget his annoyance and resentment toward her the way her admission about hating sex did. He enjoyed her discomfort; her vulnerability. It made him feel more in control of their situation.

"You sure?" He asked.

She nodded. "I need to go."

"Suit yourself." His voice was carefully neutral but as he picked up his keys, he placed his free hand firmly on her arm to stop the shaking. I'm here for you, even if I maybe shouldn't be.

… …. … .. .. … .. .. … … … .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .

After Mac dropped Memphis off at her house, he worked his shift at the garage for a couple of hours. When he got his first break between oil changes and radiator replacements, he drove the short distance to the Luna Mesa. Walter wiped down the bar and barely glanced at Mac when he strode through the front entrance. Mac stared at the old man in the dusty light that filtered in through the door before it closed behind him. His father was always a house bastard and street angel. When Mac had been growing up, Walter would spend freely to impress his friends but ignore necessities like clothing and doctors visits for his son. He owned two legitimate businesses and most of the properties in Caineville in addition to his prosperous drug outfit but even as a child Mac had to earn his room and board. On several occasions, he'd hand Mac a toothbrush and bottle of bleach and order him to clean the floor of the bar. He'd spend hours on his hands and knees going over every disgusting inch of the Luna Mesa's sticky, beer-drenched, filthy floor. He did his best to make his father proud but after a while nothing he did seemed enough to earn Walters love. He only earned food and a roof over his head. Walter refined mistreatment of his son to an art form. "I brought you into this world" he constantly told Mac, "and I can send you back where you came from. Don't ever forget that. " It became a sport for Walter to wait, catch young Mac in a happy moment then slap the smile off his face. Mac quickly learned not to smile. If Mac enjoyed a pet, Walter killed it. Periodically he'd collect any books or toys Mac managed to accumulate and burned them in the yard. The boy soon learned not have anything. Mac eventually tired of Walters excuses that he was toughening him up making a man out of his son. Over time though, Mac had become tough.

"So the Colter girl is back in town." Walter greeted Mac.

"Yeah and you're gonna give her a job."

Walter raised an eyebrow.

"She'll work the opening shift here and do housekeeping at the motel."

"You've got it all figured, huh son?"

"Yeah, just like you taught me to do." To drive the point home, he added, "How soon did you want that new batch ready? Because I may be tied up with…"

"I see. Send her around tomorrow." Walter nodded knowing that he and Mac had no love lost between them but had mutual interests. "And I expect my deadline will be met." Mac turned and was about to leave when Walter added, "I always felt sorry for that girl. Having such a monster for a father."

Mac almost laughed. Monster. That monster was the only man who ever gave Mac any encouragement, praise or positive reinforcement. He remembered the first time he'd come face to face Mitchum Colter. He was thirteen years old.

_Memphis sat on her bed while Mac wandered her room, absently touching her books and knickknacks._

_"Can I ask you something Mac?"_

_"Depends," he sat next to her._

_"When was your first kiss?"_

_Mac squirmed and blushed "I'm not talking about that with you."_

_"I only ask because Lane and some other girls at school have been making fun of me because I don't have a boyfriend."_

_"You're twelve. You shouldn't be worrying about shit like that."_

_"How old were you?"_

_He being thirteen, she figured he would have kissed someone by now. He didn't say anything, just hung his head._

_She smiled "Are you kidding me? You've never kissed a girl?"_

_"Tell anyone and you're dead."_

_"You wouldn't kill me. You'd miss me too much."_

_"Wanna bet?"_

_They sat quietly for a while until she leaned over and kissed him on the lips. He felt a mixture of shock and pleasure. A warmth he'd never experienced before began spreading through him, but before he could respond or really process what happened, the door flew open "Get the hell out of my house!"_

_Mitchum Colter hulked above the teens. He lifted Mac easily like he was shaking a naughty kitten. The world went gray and fuzzy, his breath came hard and fast, his heart rose in his throat and choked him._

_What is he doing home? What is he doing here? Memphis' parents had gone out of town for the weekend._

_Memphis saw Mac on the floor, her father standing above him. "Don't. Daddy no!" She managed to shriek, and her father stopped and glared at her._

_"What did you say?" He advanced toward her._

_Mac stood and wiped at his bloody nose. "Leave her alone!" He knew it even before he said it, that this was it. He rocked back from the blow, feeling the sting on his cheek and a sharp pain in his jaw._

_"You little bastard!" He said, hitting Mac again._

_Mac was ready this time and shielded his face as Mitchum dealt a blow to the side of his head. His ear was ringing and he saw Memphis open-mouthed behind her father._

_"You're coming with me," Mac said, reaching for her._

_Mitchum struck out at Mac again, knocking him into her desk, spilling papers everywhere._

_"She's not going anywhere."_

_"Please leave," She whispered. "He'll kill you Mac."_

_Mac did not hesitate, he grabbed for Memphis's hand, but her father got to her first. He lifted her by the hair. She clenched her teeth, willing herself not to scream._

_"What are you doing here boy? Is this what you want to see?" Her father asked, holding her up as a prize. "Here it is," he said to Mac, yanking her blouse open. "Is this what you wanted?"_

_Mac's eyes were burning with a light she had never seen before, his mouth set in a thin line. His hands clenched into fists as she watched. She suddenly felt very cold and exposed._

_"No!" She screamed just as Mac bent low and went for her father, charging like a bull._

_He took the man by surprise, driving him back to the bed, but there was really no contest. Mitchum was twice his size and he knocked Mac easily backward. He hit him with a closed fist, hard enough to slam him back into the wall._

_"That's it, girl!" Mitchum said, grabbing her by her arm and pulling her up. "You know my rules! You know my rules! No, boys! I have these rules to protect you, goddamn it! "_

_She tugged away and he shoved her into the dresser and slammed her forehead against the mirror, shattering the glass. The world was black, blue and white stars swam in the darkness. The voices were very far away._

_She ached all over and looked at Mac, standing in front of her father, urging him to go home. "Go!" She screamed, surprised she could get up enough breath._

_"No." Mac clenched his fists and stood between Memphis and her father. "I won't let you hurt her again you prick!"_

_Suddenly Mitchum stopped and loomed over Mac._

_Mac swallowed the bitter taste of blood from his tongue, and it burned in his throat. He watched the man watch him. He knew what shone in his own eyes: hatred and defiance. He knew Mitchum saw it when he looked at him and his eyes clouded over. There was something there, then, something Mac could almost recognize, but didn't want to._

_"Memphis. Go downstairs and stay there." The man ordered._

_She knew better than to argue. She licked her lip, tasting the blood there, sucking at it, feeling the tears well and hating them. She flashed Mac a helpless, pained look that said 'i'm sorry,' before slipping out the door._

_"You have guts." Mitchum said._

_Mac stepped back and looked up at Memphis' father through a red haze. He was taken aback at the words._

_"You are a tough little son of a bitch." The man stared at Mac a thoughtful expression on his face. Mac sensed that the physical threat had passed. "I'm impressed boy. The way you stood up to me. For my daughter? Hmmm. You did that before? Defend her?"_

_"Yeah."_

_"I like that in a man." Mitchum smiled. He almost looked kind._

_Mac was suspicious and unused to praise and positive feedback. You have guts, he had said. He called Mac a man. Walter never called him anything but a worthless piece of shit._

_"You care about her?"_

_"Yeah." Mac answered._

_"What's she to you?"_

_"She's my friend. That's it."_

_"You haven't fucked her?"_

_"No, sir." Mac felt a hot flush creeping up his neck. No adult had ever spoken to him this way._

_"You aren't lying to me, now, are you?'_

_"No, I ain't lying."_

_"Good. And you won't fuck her, do you understand me, son?"_

_Mac nodded. He had called him son._

_"Whats your name?"_

_"Mac."_

_"You know Mac, we have a nice front door. Feel free to use it."_

….. …. … … … … … … … … … .

Memphis saw another message from Mac on her phone. He'd left three since noon. It was now almost ten pm. He said something about her going to the Luna Mesa tomorrow for a job. The prospect exhausted her.

The truth was, she couldn't tell if Mac wanted her here. One minute he steadied her with a look or his arm the next he made her feel she was a burden and reminder. It had been a mistake to come back. Her suitcase was still only half unpacked as if she had known, somehow, she wouldn't be here long. She stared at the broken mirror across her old bedroom, the shattered pieces showed slivers of her face, but she could also see her father's eyes there, still, a burning rage. She sank to the floor so she didn't have to see anymore.

_There is blood in the room, but they can't find it. They know it's there. Blood always comes through. It can wait. The murdered one is not as important as the murderer, though, in this situation. Broken, affectless, the murdered woman does not concern us, as she did not much concern anyone in life; their theory to why she is dead._

_We hold the key to something awful, something truly, deliciously awful, that we want._

_We will start looking after hours, in a small, quiet part of the world. Things can hide in silence. But blood always comes through. It waits._

Stop, stop, stop! She silently screamed to herself. She needed to stop worrying, stop thinking, stop making her brain go into overdrive and stop talking to herself. She was driving herself crazy.

Her phone buzzed again. Mac. She turned it off. Tomorrow she'd figure out what to do. Tomorrow. She pulled a blanket over her head and drifted.


	4. His First Memphis

_"Yet each man kills the thing he loves_

_By each let this be heard_

_Some do it with a bitter look_

_Some with a flattering word_

_The coward does it with a kiss_

_The brave man with a sword."_

_-Oscar Wilde_

…. …. … . … … .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .

"Why do you hate yourself so much?" The Doctor asked.

Memphis shrugged. She had these private sessions three times a week. They were tedious meetings, but it was an excuse to leave her room at the hospital. She got to walk across the tree lined courtyard to reach the doctor's office. Supervised of course.

"I think there are feelings you are not even aware of; feelings that could explain it."

"I'm sorry, I wish I knew what they were," Memphis mumbled. A large wicker basket under the window always caught her attention. It held stuffed animals. The Doctor dealt with children and adolescent patients so the little ones often found the soft furry replicas of tigers, bears, dogs and cats comforting or a means to express their inner thoughts. Every time she sat here Memphis wanted to go over to the basket and take the plush orange kitten whose glass green eyes stared at her. She wanted to hold the animal, no hug the animal during these long confusing talks, but the longing tightened her gut, then snapped like a rubber band and she stayed still in her chair. She was seventeen, too old to play with toys.

"You self-sabotage repeatedly. It's a pattern I've seen before in trauma victims. When things are going well, you do something, engage in some negative, self-destructive behavior and then spend time trying to redeem yourself, pull yourself back up. When you get there, you create a crisis and start all over again."

Memphis looked at the doctor, feeling a bit overwhelmed. She had spent two years in this psychiatric institution. When she was charged and convicted of the attempted murder of her father, she was sentenced and placed here rather than in juvenile detention until she was eighteen. She was a bit of a star patient actually. Her father, alleged serial killer Mitchum Colter's body was never found. It was assumed he had wandered into the desert that night with life threatening injuries that his daughter had inflicted on him in self-defense and was finished off by coyotes. Memphis lead authorities to dump sites and body parts buried in her back yard. She'd obviously been a victim in her own right. They decided she needed help, not punishment. So far, however, getting her to talk about her memories of witnessing the killings had been impossible.

"It's like this." The Doctor went on, "You keep destroying your own sandcastle. Memphis it's not the tide coming in that does it. You cannot blame the tide. It's you who tear your castle down. Again and again. You build only to destroy."

"Is that why I'm so tired all the time?" She asked with a weak smile, trying to joke.

"It must be hard to live a life only doing penance. What are you trying to atone for?"

"I'm sorry," Memphis whispered.

"You are not responsible for what your father did. I believe you have memories you have buried. I'd like to bring them to the surface. Repressed trauma may be what is driving your self-destructive pattern."

Tears rolled down her cheeks without her permission. Repressed memories? Fuck that she remembered everything. It was all her fault.

"So it does work!"

Memphis opened her eyes at Mac's exclamation. He was in her bedroom, holding up her phone shouting. He'd turned it on and was listening to the messages she'd ignored.

"What are you doing here?" She asked sleepily, rubbing her eyes with closed fists, looking like a child.

"I left five messages and you don't answer one? Fuck is that? Who are you to be wasting my time? I have shit to do! "

"I'm tired, okay?" She shot back, now awake. "Tired of saying I'm sorry all the time."

"Hey! You came back, you came to me, want my help or not?"

"Stop yelling at me!"

He glanced down to her suitcase and his face twisted with rage and pain he tried to hide. "I get it. Bitch." He muttered. "Taking off again? The anywhere but here girl, right?"

"Mac don't."

"Why not? It's what you do. Run away. Stop wasting my time and dragging me into your bullshit, then disappear. Next time I won't be here."

She rose and tried to brush past him but they collided and he grabbed her. Their hips twitched together in shock, relaxed, then moved apart in greater shock. He told himself she needed a moment to regain her balance. His breath was heavy: the air was thin. Her head swelled with blackness. Her body blushed. Trying to look away, they looked at each other

"I…" Mac was uncharacteristically flustered, but not willing to play pretend. Words. Words go here.

"Don't g-" He started.

"Don't what?" She whispered as her hips trembled again, the signal coming from a deep, night place. She couldn't move until he did, and realizing this, he stepped back too quickly and coughed.

"I…" You won't fuck her. "I gotta go."

"Mac wait! I never wanted to hurt you, I never wanted this." I just wanted you. "Wait!"

He turned on his heel and stomped out chased away by her plea and the thin line he almost crossed.

The door slammed and Memphis sat heavily on her bed engulfed by confusion and emptiness. It was the fear. It was like he was afraid of her, like she was some deformed child who never should have lived beyond infancy or a conjoined twin whose other half died during birth. She had, simply by surviving, become a freak of nature. Something to be terrified of.

… … … … … … .. … … .. … .. .. .. .

Mac sat in his truck and lit a cigarette with shaking hands. After a moment, he regained his composure and began driving with no destination. Mac continued to drive forward while his mind sped backward to that night.

The night he had his first Memphis. Three years ago.

Mac parked at the bus station, enraged that he'd just missed Memphis. After he'd gone to her house and her mother told him she'd left, he'd tried to catch her before her bus departed. He was ten minutes too late. She was gone. His anger that she'd left without telling him and the prospect of never seeing her again was a betrayal that became his fuel, his motivation. That night, he had left the station and began his work. He recollected it clearly despite the many that followed. The first held a special place in his memory.

He drove away from the bus station. It was a little after midnight when he reached his destination. The place was still small, seedy and what he remembered. Mitchum had taken him to this out of the way titty bar when he was fourteen and they began their lessons. Hunting was a skill that needed practice and experience. Mac wasn't ready yet. For now he was better off with store bought for his first time.

He walked in to see only a few men sitting at the round, low tables. A couple more people were at the bar, backs to him. Over to the left was the bar, over to the right was the stage for the strippers. A worn out, ragged looking, redhead was on stage shaking her hips to an old, slower, Metallica song. He looked around for the other women; there was a prettier blonde chatting with a few men at one table. She was cute, but not what he wanted. He went over to an empty table and sat down, scanning the room.

"Hey there, handsome," a high voice called from behind him, he started to turn but she met him half way, coming around. Perfect. She had dark hair, a smaller build and it looked like she might have green eyes. That wasn't so hard, Mac thought.

"Can I get you something, baby?" the girl asked, putting her hand on his shoulder. He resisted the urge to yank her arm away and tried to hide his bristling under her touch. He wanted it to be Memphis' touch. He tilted his head to the side and looked up at her.

"Guess it depends, what'd you offer?" Mac asked, furrowing his brows at her, giving her a quizzical look.

The girl looked around the room for a moment, as if checking something, then bent down to his ear and whispered, "Whatever you're looking for, handsome. You just tell me what you want." She lifted her head back up and looked at him, waiting for a response.

"I think you know what I want," Mac replied.

"You're right, I think I do. Follow me." She turned and walked towards the back of the club. Mac followed closely behind. His nerves were starting to get the best of him. It had been a long time since he'd graduated and this was his first real job.

His stomach fluttered with anticipation and his groin ached for release. She took him to a small detached room behind the building; it looked like it was supposed to be some kind of VIP room. There was a chair, a couch, and a small round end table. The table had a lamp on it with a very dim light. The girl turned and shut the door behind him. She approached and put her hand on his crotch. "You sure are a big boy," she said, her voice falsely seductive. Mac could tell this was her job. She was not here for fun; she was not here for pleasure. She was here for money.

He took out his $50 and set it on the table. He sat down on the chair and looked up at her. She wasn't very pretty. Her face looked older than it should; her hair was dry and obviously dyed. But, in the right light, at the right angle, if he tried hard to imagine, she could be Memphis. The girl looked at the money on the table and raised an eyebrow. "My names Candice," she said, biting down on her lip.

"No," Mac replied coldly, "it's Memphis." The girl didn't seem surprised by the request. She nodded her head and sauntered over to him, kneeling down between his legs.

"For that much money, I'll be whoever you want, baby." She ran her hands up and down his legs, stopping at his knees. Mac grabbed her hair and moved some of it towards her face to block her features. She looked more like Memphis now. She could at least pass for her if he imagined. She ran her hands back up his legs and stopped at his belt.

She began to undo the belt buckle and pull it off. Mac grabbed her hands and yanked her up onto his lap. She straddled him, arms tucked into her chest as Mac gripped her hips. He leaned back and closed his eyes, pulling her arms over by his head so she was on his lap and close to his face. She placed either hand on the back of the chair and rubbed her face against his, nuzzling his cheek a little bit. He turned into her touch. It was now Memphis' face so close to his, rubbing against his.

She kissed his throat softly, flicking her tongue out now and then to give a tickle. It turned his stomach, in a good way. She pulled on his shirt and peeled it off. "Woah," she breathed, impressed with his physique. She ran her hands through his sparse chest hair, and back up to his shoulders. She kissed his neck again then began trailing down his chest. Her legs slipped off his lap and onto the floor. She finished undoing his belt and unzipped his pants.

He helped assist in peeling them off, along with his boxers. His member stood tall and thick, ready for attention. But first, she kissed around his legs, tickling and teasing him. The sensation was driving Mac wild. Memphis was such a sexy tease. She knew just how to touch him and where.

"Mem," Mac whispered, breathing her name. She finally gave him what he wanted; what he needed. She wrapped her hand around his cock, giving a gentle squeeze. Mac moaned loudly, the sound coming from deep within. The feeling of her hand, it was too much. He wasn't sure how long he'd be able to hang on for. The pleasure was building, fast. She stroked him a few times, and then he felt wetness and warmth around his member. She had taken him in her mouth. The sensation was incredible. Tingles ran through his body from head to toe. Her mouth was hot and her lips were tight around him. She seemed to swallow him whole, like an old pro.

She was a pro, a whore. This wasn't Memphis, this was some junkie hooker. Mac shook his head, trying to shake the facts from his brain. Wait, no, it was Memphis. Yes, it was. It was his Memphis, kneeling before him. A goddess at his knees. She had chosen him to love, to touch, to suck. He thought only of her as the pleasure once again built. He looked down at the girl, her face down and covered by her dark hair. It was Memphis, her head bobbed slowly as she rode his cock with her mouth.

Mac put one hand on the back of her head, touching her hair softly. She quickened her speed, bobbing faster, bringing him to the brink of climax. He grabbed a handful of hair and squeezed as the need overcame him. The release filled his body and poured out into Memphis' mouth. She sucked him dry and swallowed. She licked her tongue around her lips, getting all traces of his come.

As soon as she was done and she looked up at him, his satisfaction was gone. It wasn't Memphis anymore. It was just some stripper whore with too much makeup. Mac felt anger and disappointment filling the spot in his stomach where his pleasure and satisfaction had been moments before. She watched him through narrowed eyes, not sure what his deal was. He continued to glare feeling his rage build. This wasn't Memphis, but it was. Before he realized what he was doing, he reached down and placed a hand on either side of the whore's face. "You left you fucking bitch. You lied." For a split second, she thought she saw the pain in his eyes. But why? Her last thought ended with her life when he snapped her neck with one forceful twist. Her body slumped at his feet. The sound of the snap and site of her crumpled form gave him an elated feeling he'd never experienced. It was better than the orgasm better than the fantasy of fucking Memphis it was the act of killing Memphis. He stood and shoved the lifeless form aside with his boot. "Think you wouldn't have to pay for what you did?"

After gathering her purse and coat, Mac picked up the body and slung it over his shoulder. He pocketed the money still on the table. He opened the back door to the deserted parking lot. His truck was nearby. His stride was steady and business-like as he made it to his pick up and tossed the dead girl into its rusted bed, then covered her with a greasy drop cloth. He walked toward the door of the cab without a second glance at her. She'd never be missed. Women like her were always disappearing and no one ever gave a shit. Mitchum taught him that.

He sat in the truck; not moving or seeing, just being. He felt better than any time he could remember in his life. It was not a perfect kill. He would refine his technique and become more violent as he continued to work, but for a first time? Some would call it murder, but it was liberation.

He turned the truck around on the deserted road and headed back to Memphis' house.

"I'm not okay Mac.

"I know."

He had promised to take care of her. So what if they were just kids when he made the vow. He decided he wouldn't let her leave this time. She always was his bad idea.


	5. Dream Within a Dream

_"Knowing can be a curse on a person's life. I'd traded in a pack of lies for a pack of truth, and I didn't know which one was heavier. Which one took the most strength to carry around? It was a ridiculous question, though because once you know the truth, you can't ever go back and pick up your suitcase of lies. Heavier or not, the truth is yours now."_

_-Sue Monk Kid_

Memphis stared at her bedroom door for a long while after she'd heard Mac's truck roar to life and peel away from the curb. She wondered why she was holding on so tightly to what they had as kids. She wasn't after affection, she knew better than that with Mac. What she wanted was someone she belonged with beyond any doubt or denial; someone whose every glance was a guarantee that they were stuck to each other for life. It was obviously over for him. He had moved on and all she was doing was reminding him of someone he'd outgrown like clothing. Time to be pragmatic. She'd survived a whole lot worse than losing a friendship. Still, being without him felt like having no reflection.

... ... ... .. .. .. .

Mac hesitated in front of Memphis' darkened house. Did he really want to do this? Could they pick up where they'd left off? Make up for lost time? It felt like sentimental bullshit that he hated. Three years ago he'd trusted her to stay, to be there for him like he'd been for her but she left. He grew up, got a grip and stopped thinking about it, at least on the surface. He had gotten used to being on his own, no links to anyone. Now she was a link, like a handcuff, slapped on his wrist out of nowhere and tightened until it bit to the bone. Something deep down told him it wasn't malicious she hadn't left to hurt him. Still, he'd learned early on to assume there was always something dark and lethal hidden at the heart of anything he'd dare to love. If he couldn't find it, he responded the only way he knew how and planted it there himself. Was he trying to punish her or himself? Either way, she needed him. He recognized that much.

Memphis' mother had gone to bed, but he knew the spare key was under that stupid frog or turtle or whatever the hell it was at the end of the porch. He'd used it numerous times to sneak into her room late at night when they were kids.

She was watching the door like she knew he would come back through it. He did.

"Get your shit."

"What? Why?"

"You're already packed, come on."

"Thought you didn't want me to leave."

"You're not. You're coming with me."

"Where?"

"Sometimes you are so stupid…to my place. It's what you wanted isn't it? Don't play games. You're better than that. "

He had a way of turning insults into compliments that always fucked with her head but reinforced why she needed him. The truth was she didn't want to leave Mac. This town sure, her mistakes, yes, but not him.

She smiled slightly. "Okay. Friends again?"

He shook his head and snorted. "Fuck you. What are we twelve?'

She grabbed his hand. "I wish."

"No, you don't." He mumbled twisting his arm away. He grabbed her suitcase while she pulled on her boots, wobbling on one foot. "Friends," he sighed reaching over to steady her by the arm so she didn't fall over.

"We used to talk about living together. Remember, when we were little?" She mused.

" I know."

"It was going to be a house made of cheese."

" I wanted chocolate, you were the one who wanted cheese."

" Why food?"

" I think it just made us laugh."

We used to laugh.

Memphis felt strange driving back to Mac's place. Mac maneuvered the steering wheel casually and she allowed herself a brief moment to gaze at his hands. He had dirty mechanic's nails, strong, calloused working man's hands. The right one sported the tiny star tattoo between his thumb and forefinger. She had the same one. They tattooed each other with India ink and a sewing needle when they were thirteen. Those hands had curled into fists several times and beaten the shit out of other boys who'd harassed Memphis in junior high. His arms had held her when she fell down and skinned her knee trying to climb the old tree behind the schoolyard. She'd ridden on those shoulders before.

What would my ankles look like up there? Stop it, she scolded herself.

Memphis realized that Mac was the bravest person she'd ever known. He'd come back tonight-he'd put himself out there when she was too afraid. Maybe she would have left again and run away like a coward.

It was close to two am when they got home—our home? She asked herself. She translated Mac's "I'm beat," as they came through the front door to mean no more conversations tonight.

"Couch is yours." He tossed off casually as he retired to his bedroom and shut the door. She hadn't expected him to offer her the bed. He was not a chivalrous gentleman in that respect. He was hardcore, practical Mac. She knew he needed his space. He always had. Or maybe he was hiding something? She didn't care. The couch was a welcome alternative to her old house and the memories it held. And he was right. This is what she had wanted.

Remembering the feeling she had earlier when their hips touched that closeness was unbearable, his shoulder rubbed against hers, thigh against thigh. A part of her imagined bursting into his room, to catch Mac in the middle of removing his own clothes but to do what, she didn't know. She closed her eyes and imagined what it would be like if their bodies touched, but they wouldn't not like that. It would ruin everything.

"Sweet dreams," She called out to his closed door with a sarcastic sugariness. She hated that phrase as much as she knew he did. Sweet dreams didn't exist. She lay back and closed her eyes.

Training her eyes back on the Devil, Memphis watched him turn away from her and look at the back of the house. The creature shrugged his shoulders smoothly and stepped closer to where Memphis was crouched. Shifting slightly as her legs began to cramp, she paused and stilled.

Like a snake rearing for an attack, the Devil whipped his head towards the rosebush she was hiding behind and sensually licked his bottom lip. Digging her nails into her palm until she felt blood coat her fingertips, Memphis froze. He stared at the rosebush a moment longer with something akin to sexual desire etched into his features.

Tears leaked out of her eyes when she realized the last woman had gotten away. She was going to be saved. It was a small concession, but Memphis knew she'd finally done something right, something good by helping the terrified woman escape. Though she might have been young, Memphis knew what she would have to do this night, the person she would have to become to survive.

"I know you're here Memphis," she whipped her head towards the Devil, shaking violently at the smile that played across his lips. "I know what you did. Curiosity killed the cat…"

His voice sounded smooth, determined and somehow ancient as if the Devil had lived a hundred lifetimes. Memphis held her breath as the Devil's smile deepened but with a softly whistled tune, the creature walked away, fading into the night.

_Memphis woke up with a start; she had had another nightmare, only this time it seemed so real. She got up and walked to the window of the small room that was her home and her prison in the psychiatric facility. Every night after a session with the Doctor, she had another nightmare. A knock at her door had her quickly slip back into bed before saying in a soft voice, "Come in." A nurse poked her head around the door and asked, "Are you all right? I thought I heard you shout."_

_"Just another nightmare," Memphis replied politely._

_"Oh." Replied the nurse. "Would you like something to help you sleep?"_

_"That would be nice."_

_The nurse came into the room bringing with her a small cart with a syringe and some other medical items. She sat down on the edge of the bed and picked up the needle, Memphis eagerly offered her arm to the nurse; she always got a rush from the needle going in. The nurse held her arm and gently pushed the syringe into Memphis' vein just below the elbow. As she felt the needle break through her skin, Memphis inhaled sharply, goose bumps spread over her body and her stiffening nipples shown through her nightshirt like pencil erasers. The nurse pulled the needle out and said good night to her then shut the door. Memphis lay on the bed heavily breathing, the sensation of being pierced set her body on fire. She closed her eyes and felt a strong tingling building between her legs and she arched her back as her fingers came in contact with her hard nipples. She gasped as she pinched them then cupped her firm breasts in her hands. Her injection was beginning to take effect and she soon lost interest in her breasts. Her hands wandered lower, slipping into her pajama pants._

_Memphis opened her heavy-lidded eyes but she was no longer in her room, she and her bed had somehow appeared out in the courtyard of the hospital. Night had fallen and dark brooding clouds swirled menacingly above her. "To be honest, no. I hate it. I mean, you know, sex. It sucks. At least, it does for me. Maybe there's something wrong with me, but it always..." She was talking to Mac, who sat on the edge of her bed when suddenly there was a bright flash and a loud crack as lightning struck the ground right in front of her bed. With a weird groaning sound the ground began to give way to a gaping black pit, Memphis and her bed began to fall._

She jolted awake to thunder and lightening outside as a freak pre-dawn flash rainstorm struck the desert and canyons surrounding Mac's house.

She sat up shaking, feeling a heated twinge in her belly and a damp spot soaking the crotch of her panties. She was sweating and breathing heavily. Those damned dreams within dreams. She pulled herself up and walked outside to the front yard of the house. The lightening was moving away past the mountains. Memphis let the rain soak her hair and shirt, wishing it could make her clean. She was haunted by that thin line that separates being spared with being rejected. One of her biggest secrets was that she felt conflicted that she wasn't killed by her father. Was it because sacrifices must always be perfect, pure and fearless the way some ancient god demanded? Maybe her father hadn't spared her maybe he'd only killed the others because she wasn't good enough? Then the night it was supposed to happen she struck first. She defended herself. She was a defiant and troublesome girl, not the complacent, ready sacrifice she thought she should have been? Everyone said she was blessed to be alive. She smiled and nodded at the doctors, the detectives and the journalists, but inside she felt cursed. That was sick. Sick.

The rain let up. As the red dawn broke, over the canyons, something about their jagged, desperate reach for the sky made her edgy; something about them seemed stubborn and secretive like a turned back.

... .. ... .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .

The next few days hummed along smoothly and felt almost routine. Mac had gotten one of the refurbished cars they sold at the garage for Memphis to use to get to work at the Luna Mesa. It was a twelve-year-old piece of crap on wheels, but it functioned well enough to get her back and forth. Sometimes it stalled in the morning but after a few tries the groaning engine turned over. She'd been worried about locals having a bad reaction to her serving them drinks or lunch, but she needn't have worried. No one seemed to give her a second thought. She was just an average young woman in black skinny jeans and a worn Thin Lizzy t-shirt. She kept her order pad in the pocket of a vintage checked apron tied around her waist and a pencil in her pile of dark hair atop her head and told them the daily special. The worst she got were some pitying sympathetic glances. She heard a few whispers of "that poor girl; you know her father was..." But the villagers were not running her out of town with pitchforks.

Walter treated her with a cool distance, but he always had. Working was good. It kept her busy and her mind off of the past.

She and Mac left the house together in the mornings but while she got home around four every afternoon, he'd been coming in at two or three am. She assumed he was working at the cave cooking meth for Walter. Or maybe he was out with a woman. She had to consider that possibility. After all, she'd called him away from a date the night he bailed her out of jail.

On the afternoon of the fourth day, Memphis got off work early. She thought she should take that time to do some cleaning. She figured it wouldn't hurt to just help him out this once. If Mac came home thinking she was his maid, then she would know better than to do anything to help him out again. The afternoon was hot but dry. She changed into a tank top and a pair of cut-offs with a bandana tied around her head before getting to work. After a few hours, she completed her task. She looked toward Mac's disheveled bedroom and hesitated. Would that be going too far? Cleaning up his room? No, she figured she started the job, might as well finish.

She stripped the bed of the comforter and nearly threw up. When was the last time these sheets were changed? Guys. She could smell a strong odor of liquor, maybe weed and something else that she wasn't sure of. As she pulled off the other sheets, the odor got stronger. After a while, she figured out the other smell was sex. She found several pairs of women's underwear.

Jealousy?

The thought fluttered nervously low in her in her belly as she came to the realization at what she inwardly admitted. She wanted to be touched by Mac. She was threatened by these women. Because when he touched them he wasn't touching her. She didn't want him, but she did want to be the only woman he touched. Woman. Memphis smirked at herself. Like she was ever one in the first place.

She laid prostrate on the bed as a mixture of feelings washed over her. Disgust. Anger. Sadness. Happiness?

She was also suddenly confronted by the reality that she had, if only for a split second, wondered if he could make her come where no other guy had ever done so. Memphis not yet consumed by lust, but at least now curious about Mac in a whole new way struggled to understand his feeling of possessive devotion to her. She would never call it love because love between them was doomed and impossible, making it, of course, purer than any real love could be.

When she went around the other side of his bed, she stumbled over something and almost landed face first on the floor. She turned her head back to see what she tripped over and narrowed her eyes at a loosened wooden floorboard that was sticking up. Everything inside her screamed "no, don't look" but she licked her dry lips nervously and murmured 'Here goes nothing.' She wrapped her fingers around the edge of the board and began to lift it. She placed the board on the bed and looked inside. There, gleaming back at her, was a blood-encrusted dagger. Instead of experiencing fear or surprise, when she looked at it, she wondered how it would feel to lightly scrape her arm and down her chest. A shudder passed through her as she imagined the tingling feeling of the cold metal on her skin.

She reached under the floor and grasped the knife in her fist. It looked familiar. Underneath the blade, she noticed several pieces of clothing folded neatly. She held a few up and when she saw the rips and blood stains decorating them with morbid design, she brought the knife in front of her and looked at it beside a bloody garment. One thing she couldn't deny was that this knife was used for a deadly purpose. She knew what trophies looked like. Her father kept shredded clothing too. Mac murdered someone. Slaughtered them. Someone who had every right to wake up in the morning and eat breakfast and go to work, who has as much right to live her life as the rest of us. As I do. Me.

I should be horrified. I should want to stop him. But I know him. That's true. Yes. Bad men aren't born bad. They're made. Who made him?

She was not afraid of Mac. He would not hurt her, cross her, unless she trespassed on his rules. The rules were very specific for pain; this secret was not for her consumption. But the truth had to come out, and better now than later.

She felt a flash of searing pain run up her arm. She looked down at her hand to see blood seeping from the tip of her finger. She had forgotten that she had her finger on the edge of the knife when she moved put the knife back. It had made a slit in her finger that was deep enough to drip droplets of blood on the floor. Then the handle caught her attention. Her stomach dropped when she saw initials carved into the smooth wood. MLC. Mitchum Lee Colter. It was her father's knife, that's why it had looked familiar. Why would Mac have her father's knife? Memories tried to filter through a hazy window in the back of her mind. Those afternoons when Mac was waiting for her to get home from the library and he'd be in the shed with her father. Talking.

"What in the world were you talking to my dad about?"

Mac always shrugged. "Just bullshitting. He's not so bad you know."

"Not so bad? Mac he-.'

"Hey, I'm playing you. He's an asshole. Just trying to stay on his good side; you don't want him to stop me from coming around do you?"

"No. Of course, I don't. But be careful. You can't trust him."

Mac laughed at her.

Now she thought she knew what they had been talking about.

She lifted her head as she heard Mac coming into the house. Shit. Why was he home so early? She shoved one blouse under the bed and put the rest back in their hiding place. When he entered the bedroom, his eyes were like burning coals of recognition. He knew. His whole demeanor was a visible dark contrast to his usual low-key personality. "What are you doing?" he said in a tense voice. Before she could answer, he stood her up on her feet, wrapped his hands around her waist and carried her to the bathroom sink. He put her injured finger over the faucet and ran water over it.

"You shouldn't have been playing with that," he said as he concentrated on cleaning up all the excess blood.

"I wasn't-"

"But you were messing around with the knife." Once he was satisfied, he turned off the faucet and sat her on the edge of the sink. Mac got a towel and applied pressure to her finger. He told her to lean forward a bit as he got some first aid supplies out of the medicine cabinet behind her. Memphis sat quietly, feeling like a little kid in trouble. She didn't mean to slit her finger. It just happened.

"You shouldn't have done this Memphis."

"I didn't mean to," she whispered.

"But you did."

Memphis knew he was talking about more than cutting her finger.

"You know what you did."

You know.

A silence passed over them while Mac applied pressure until the bleeding stopped. Memphis looked down at the floor, trying to escape the burning coals while she waited. But soon she began to notice another source of heat that was burning her up alive from within. She couldn't deny it anymore.


	6. Conquer Me

The same heat scorched Mac and he suddenly dropped his hands and moved away from her.

"M-Mac we need to t-talk." She managed to stutter out, feeling shaky and lightheaded. "The knife. It's m-my dads. Did you take it that night? The night you ...finished it for me?" That made sense to Memphis. Somehow if Mac had taken the knife, it was all okay. If her father had given him the knife that would mean, they'd had a bond they'd kept from her. That would be worse.

He left the bathroom without a word. After a minute, she heard the door of his truck close and the engine start. She flew through the house but it was too late, he was gone.

Memphis debated leaving. Betrayal burned and made her feel stupid and used. She spent the next hour brooding over the reality that Mac was a murderer and most likely had a some sort of secret relationship with her father as a mentor. She didn't want that to be true, but why else would he have the knife? Why would he keep the same type of trophies that her father did? Memphis became frustrated and she was determined to confront him. She didn't realize that it wasn't Mac's crimes that were pissing her off. She was angry he'd kept them from her. He'd been close to her father and never discussed it with her. She paced and twisted strands of hair around her forefinger. I hated my father and Mac did too. Didn't he? What the hell is this?

Mac didn't say where he'd been when he returned a couple of hours later. Memphis imagined the worst case scenario: another kill. She didn't ask, but the pain of betrayal pushed her to speak up. He knew she knew, yet wasn't acknowledging it. Finally, she retrieved the blouse from under the bed.

"Mac…what are you doing with this?"

She found him in the kitchen, sitting at the table absently cleaning his fingernails with the knife. She swallowed hard recognizing her father's habit. Her hand shook as she held up the shredded blouse covered in dried blood.

He appraised the clothing as she displayed it like they were playing a game of show and tell.

"Everything is so fucked up." He said, leaning back cracking his neck. He stuck a toothpick in his mouth and clenched it between his teeth making his jaw muscles twitch.

"What is this?" She asked again, drawing out each word, her voice even, but her hands shaking as she continued to hold the piece of clothing at eye level. She needed him to tell her in his own words.

He raised his eyebrow. "What it looks like." Then, "Why'd you leave here, Memphis?" His question was accusatory his voice challenged her.

After too much silence she answered. "I didn't, they took me away you know that."

"No, I'm talking about the second time. You fucked it all up Memphis. You leaving fucked me."

"So it's somehow my fault? This," She tossed the bloodied garment at him, "is because of me? I make you do this shit?"

She couldn't believe it was happening again. Her father said he had to kill all those girls and make her watch so he wouldn't kill her. It was her fault. She'd never told Mac that part. She felt dizzy. It was like he knew. It was like he was doing it too. But how…why?

"It's always a woman, isn't it?" She asked, her voice hesitant at first but gaining strength as she began to understand. "Always a male killer and a female victim. It's the woman whose entrails are scattered into crazy bullshit patterns the killers make up. The woman is beaten, raped, humiliated, depersonalized. When you watch a fucking movie, it's always a beautiful woman dumped in the lake, or buried in the lime pit. And you don't feel sorry for her do you? You feel sorry for him. You want to help him. You want to talk to him, right? Have a big man-to-man chat? Find out where he keeps it? Find out how he does it? Don't you, Mac?"

He just glared at her, chewing hard on the toothpick. As usual his silence invited her to continue.

"Or did you? Because there is no fucking 'but for the grace of God go you.' Oh no, you went there. Did he…show you the way?"

Worked up now, she pushed things to the surface that were reburied every day. His chest was rhythmic, the hum everywhere. Nothing would be gained by lying, things might be missed should he hold back. He won't hold back, not anymore.

The table was in the air, then with a crash, on the floor by the wall. His violent cacophonous action made her instinctively close her eyes and lower her chin, and hate herself for it. His chest was heaving, his hands in talons and eyes so bright he could see in the dark. In her mind, she heard the rustling of birds, carrying pretty salvage, clicking tiny treasures in powerful claws.

He backed away silently to the door but didn't leave. Beats passed. She opened her lids and her thin eyes were full of interest, not fear or even disgust. He knew she wanted to study him, to know him. His arms were heavy with rage, and he could not trust himself to stay and talk. He was just waiting to see her look change, but it remained free of disdain or pity, just a mirror shard of her own self, reflecting on his possibility, and pushing down what she recognized. Her spine curved down like a brandy glass. She had swallowed too much guilt, and it ruined her posture.

His hands ached and he cracked them. Her sympathetic expression infuriated him. He didn't want her support or camaraderie. That was too dangerous.

"I should kick your fucking ass out right now." He whispered.

"You can't, I don't have anywhere to go."

"You think I care? I hope you end up living in a fucking dumpster!" He shouted and stalked to the bedroom.

"Fuck you!" she screamed, running after him. Teeth clenched she jumped on his back, swinging and punching him like a wild woman.

He easily shrugged her off and spun around. He grabbed Memphis' wrists and forced her back on the bed, landing heavily on top of her. Her eyes went wide with fear. He didn't care; He wanted to scare her…he wanted her to be afraid of what would happen. He wanted to hurt her, punish her for betraying the trust he'd placed in her. He only planned to scare her, he never intended to take it any farther.

Until she whispered, "Conquer me..."

The two words were quiet... blending and mixing in the sudden silence of the room. "What would it take? Mac, you know exactly what I am... who I am."

The fear left her eyes.

Mac saw her bathed in red light... like the apple in Eden. She was forbidden and untouchable. But you want her don't you? Well, there's a price to pay for every sin that you indulge in. A price to pay…

"I know you're strong enough. Don't cave and let me win. I don't want to win. I have a nature that's wild... that's unbreakable... I fall down and I get back up. No matter how low I go... I always... get back up. I'm so tired of getting up. You can break me… please, I'm so tired…"

She stared and he followed her descent with his eyes. She looked up at him now... that green gaze burning him with its inner fire.

She is his sin.

She is the price.

A second's silence.

"Do you understand?" She rasped.

His cold blue eyes stared into hers slightly dancing. He nodded. It was time. "You've always been mine." Mac was about to say more, but Memphis touched his lips with her finger.

"I know, " Her voice was low but sure and steady. "So show me. I need you to show me." She felt Mac's warm tongue reach out, pulling her finger into his mouth. It was such an intimate, erotic act to someone like her, who only knew sex as a joyless, hurried experience. Mac pulled her in close, and when she withdrew her finger, he allowed her hand to trace his chest until she reached his belt. Then he stopped her.

He sat back and pulled his shirt over his head drawing out the act with a predatory energy. "Always been mine."

She shut her eyes against the whispering sound of his voice and the ring of truth in his words. Her shirt was yanked over her head. Somehow her shorts were roughly taken from her body. Her panties were down on the floor lost somewhere. She was totally naked, exposed and her body was on fire.

He flipped her on onto her hands and knees. He pushed down on her shoulders and he breathed flames on the back of her neck. She fell onto her chest as he pulled her hips up. Her ass high in the air, he slammed his hand down onto it. She yelped then held it back as his hand came down again. His finger slipped into her pussy and came back wet with her juices. It was as if he was the first to touch her. And thus... the first to mold her.

Suddenly he wrapped his hand in her espresso dark mane. His fist gripped her hair hard, pulling roughly, forcing her back to arch, causing her breasts to press forward, the pain turning to pleasure. Memphis couldn't help it. She moaned,

She felt him back away, his fingers left her and she heard the metal of his belt buckle clink. Her stomach fluttered with anticipation. Then he was there again. Only, this time it wasn't fingers that she felt prodding against the opening into her body. He'd freed his erection and placed it at her entrance. He paused there, seemingly in contemplation. She felt his wet finger tracing over her then, following the line of her muscles, across her backside and down her leg. She whimpered. He suddenly stabbed forward without warning and she stifled a scream as he rammed himself into her.

"Feel like a virgin." He laughed and thrust his hips upward violently, causing her to cry out again. Pulling back, he held there at her entrance, just the head of his cock still inside her. He watched as it tugged at her folds, he asserted the slightest pressure in order to see the ridge on the underside of his head tease at her opening. He pulled back and slid home. Slowly thrusting into her he stroked her wherever he could reach. He needed to claim her, every inch of her from thigh to breast, his hands moved over her, touching her belly, chest, neck. His tongue snaked out and he licked her shoulder before biting into her flesh and tasting blood.

"You don't know how hard I get..." He rasped then as he slammed back into her. ".. ah fuck, maybe you do."

She moaned then, and turned her head to look back at him. He stared at her face, so intricate... so delicate... so marked. She looked like a doll. She looked like a fantasy. Maybe a nightmare. Some image that popped out of the deepest depths of some serial killer's mind. Only, he wasn't a serial killer at this moment, he was an artist.

He bit her shoulder harder and she moaned as his teeth sunk in. He held himself still inside her. She could feel him pulsating and didn't dare move. She understood that he was in control here. She relished it, she loved how much he filled her. He slowly eased out and then back in. She growled in frustration, not wanting a slow fucking. She felt his hands grip her hips, his nails dug into her skin; she bit her lip to keep from crying out. Her passage squeezed him tightly and he grunted as he began to thrust again. There was a constant moan now as he pounded into her, interrupted only by the squeezing of the air from her lungs with each thrust, that caused the sound to stop for a second before it resumed.

Violently, he took her, grasping her hips and holding himself inside of her. Pounding, pounding. The slapping of flesh was like a whip crack in the air. Her body jolted with each penetration and he reached around, fondling her breasts, feeling the hardness of her nipples. The pain made her wet. The pleasure made her wetter. He licked his lips and dipped his finger into the wetness, bringing it to his tongue and sucking. He thrust it into her mouth then, forcing her to taste herself, taste the proof of her desire. He rolled her nipple painfully causing her to gasp out in surprise and need. He turned her face to his. Her eyes widened and she stared into his icy blue orbs. He had done that on purpose. He wanted to see her eyes. He wanted to see the lust in them. He pulled on her nipple driving her from the bed.

His eyes were heavy lidded. Her skin was on fire. Where her breasts pressed against the mattress they were cool, but where he touched, every place that his fingers explored there was an acute, burning, fire. She loved it. She hated it. Tears of pain streamed down her face even as her body reached an uncontrollable climax. Chills owned her, then heat as her eyes rolled back.

He thrust and thrust, pounding into her willing cunt as his fingers tiptoed over the skin. He closed his eyes and pressed himself closer to her, shoving her harder against the mattress. Her breathing became shallow, she couldn't seem to take in a complete breath. He caressed, he thrust, he stopped, pulling back and held fast inside her instead, making small forward motions with his hips. He crammed himself into her body, nudging against her cervix with his cock.

She could feel him so deep in her belly... so deep. And it broke her. Those small, blunt motions... they broke her, before rewarding her with his cock fucking her hard. Slamming so deep and hard into her she could hear their bodies slapping.

Her body tightened and she grew even hotter. "I .. I'm gonna come." She gasped almost surprised. No man had ever brought her to climax before. He wrapped his hand around her throat squeezing slightly. The control only made Memphis burn hotter. She was so close. Her body squeezed his cock tighter. Suddenly he stopped moving and though Memphis wanted to push back on him or cry out especially since she was so close she didn't move. Her body calmed down and he started thrusting hard into her again. She was immediately brought to the brink and she didn't say anything just let her body tighten up again. He stopped again and Memphis growled in frustration.

He squeezed her throat hard cutting off the air and immediately stopped her complaint. He hauled her up to her knees while still embedded deep inside her. He growled an order. "Beg."

Memphis was confused. Beg for what? She didn't understand. He slowly slid into her wet, hot core.

"Beg."

She realized what he wanted. She was barely able to nod.

"Please, I've never...I want to feel what its like..."

She'd said she'd hated sex; he was showing her what a real man could do. He would give her first orgasm. Possessiveness burned. He immediately fucked her relentlessly while still on her knees. He pushed up and into her. His hand tightened around her throat cutting off any screams she would emit. She was so hot, so needing this, she immediately felt her orgasm approaching. "I... I'm... Can I come?"

He thrust into her once, twice, she felt him lean over her. "Now."

Those words burned into her. They zipped through her body. She came so hard her body jerked, she arched and she moaned into his mouth as he swallowed her orgasm. Fragments of light splintered behind her closed eyes. The sweet aching waves rushed her as her hips bucked back and forth. She almost collapsed when she felt him tensing behind her, tensing. Coming. Just before he came, he withdrew.

She felt the absence of him and whimpered, wanting him back, wanting him to come inside of her. Instead, he took himself in hand and squeezed, quickly beating his own flesh off. Long moments passed as she waited, waited for his fingers, his cock, his tongue... Anything. Nothing. He gave her nothing. His hand moved quickly, flashing up and down the length of his dick. His eyes remained fixed on her, roaming up and down. He felt his orgasm building, felt the come boiling in his balls, moving outward. He pumped his hand harder, pulling with near violence and thrust. He reached out his arm and laid his free palm flat against her back. He heard her wince as he leaned forward, exerting pressure. His fingers dug into her skin as he held her there. Then he came in viscous white torrents. His semen hit her flesh. The sticky come drizzled down her lower back and between the crack of her ass. He watched it, mesmerized. His mouth watered. Such an incredibly seductive sight. So incredibly seductive. He glanced up and removed his hand from her back. He stood there staring at her. Marked. She was a work of art. He had made her. He possessed her.

He looked down at Memphis, naked on the bed, covered in his come, her eyes wide but not with fear and her pussy swollen and raw. He couldn't say a word. He pulled on his jeans and left the room instantly regretting what had happened. He was pissed at himself for losing control, but, she was still alive, still breathing. Part of him was surprised.

A few minutes later she went to the kitchen and saw him on the back porch smoking. She took a bottle of whiskey outside with her.

"Thank you." Memphis said sitting beside him. She had on his wife beater. It hung so loosely it barely covered her breasts.

"What?"

"You heard me. Don't you dare feel that was wrong. I wanted it, as much as you did." Memphis knocked back a swig of the Jack Daniels and Mac took a long drag on his cigarette. Then looked at her. She was serious. Deadly serious. The sex was great. It was okay to want her, dominate her, and control her. Her father was not here. No, this was not wrong. Her father was wrong.

"Do you kill them? Or just…hurt them?" She almost laughed at her own question for sounding so naive.

"Does it matter?" He took a shot from the bottle. She watched his throat as he swallowed.

She shook her head. "I don't care." She pressed herself against him. He let her. "I'm the one you want." For the first time, Memphis didn't feel unworthy. She felt she was finally the chosen one. Mac had chosen her. How could this be wrong? It was like her father all over again but different. Very different. Her father made her feel as if something was deeply wrong with her. He made her feel very ugly, very damaged like she was full of poison. He never laid a hand on her in a sexual way but did other women in her stead. He made her believe sex was not for her. Not with anyone. The few times she'd hooked up with guys in the past couple of years, it was a defiant, numbing experience. She'd felt nothing and in the end believed her father was right after all. This was different. She'd been anything but numb. I like the way Mac touches me and kisses me, and fucks me. He makes me feel like a woman instead of a girl. She finally felt the years of excruciating loneliness disperse in the wind. Her father was wrong. "I'm the one you want." She repeated in barely a whisper. But he answered.

"Always wanted you, Mem."

"We wasted so much time."

"You did. You're then who left."

"I'm not going anywhere, ever again." He made her feel both owner and owned, lover and loved, with no thought of anything else in the world. She felt like a woman for the first time, in love with a man. Even if she could speak, words seemed unnecessary. Only sensations mattered.

"Damn right." Mac knew he wouldn't be with anyone else. He couldn't. Other women were disgusting. Mere insects next to her. Next time. The thought of doing this again sent a thrill through him. Still, he struggled with wanting to be with her, please her, and love her. Love had been poison for him in the past. But for the first time he wasn't looking for poison inside of her. What is love? Love is when one person knows all of your secrets, deepest, darkest, most dreadful secrets of which no one else in the world knows. And yet in the end, that one person does not think any less of you.

"But I'm telling you right now, I don't know how to do this. I'm not boyfriend material. God, the word makes me want to stab something."

"I don't want you to be. I sure as hell don't know how to be a girlfriend. Look we're friends okay, we've always been able to be ...close. That's all this is, only now just as ...grownups I guess."

"Memphis, what if I hurt you?"

"Then you do." She said. "I get hurt a lot. But I'll heal. I won't break. I'll hurt you, too, even if you'd rather die than admit it."

"No, I mean really hurt you...like the others."

"I'm not worried, not with you."

Mac felt a kind of weightless calm, a feeling he knew couldn't last forever. It was strange talking to her like this.

"Relationships are hard Mac.

"So's my dick."

She laughed looking down at his crotch, "Still?"

"It's your fault."

She shrugged and grinned. She knew it was his response to the word relationship. That was Mac.

"Mac, I won't freak out on you," she said. "I mean, I know what you're like. And I won't let you pull that drifting away shit either. But I get it. No more lies. I don't want some make-believe version of you. You're for me just the way you are. No matter what."

"It's all a little fucked, though, right?"

"Totally," she laughed, "a lot fucked."

"But that's OK?"

"Better than OK," she said thoughtfully. "It's as crazy as we are. But I don't care."

It was exactly what he needed to hear.

"OK."

Memphis felt no fear or doubt. In time those feelings might return; life couldn't go on as perfect as this. Ugly realities would intrude. They'd fight, second guess themselves, wonder what their lives were supposed to be about. But it wouldn't break them. She was not naive she knew she was that she'd turned the page on a long, dark chapter of her life only to enter another. But not alone. Being with Mac and still intoxicated by the sex. Maybe it wasn't gentle romantic lovemaking, but it was what she needed; what they both needed. Memphis knew, as if she remembered something she'd forgotten, that life was more than avoiding pain, running away from the bad. It's like when they were kids; she wouldn't have to do it alone.

I'm his.

"Mac, I have to ask you, what happened between you and my father? Please tell me."

Mac answered with a question of his own. "What would you say to your dad if you could?"

"What does it matter he's dead."

"Yeah, but just say you had the chance to go back and face him."

"Nothing. I'd kill him all over again."

Mac looked thoughtful. "Okay."


End file.
